


Slow and mad, like some new language

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [54]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29318550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: Sonny comes home to a mess.
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713
Kudos: 1





	Slow and mad, like some new language

Sonny knew something was wrong even before he got to the apartment; he could hear the music down in the lobby, and he knew it was Vinnie's. Probably nobody else in the building listened to that horrible trash can-rattling crap. He gave a tight smile to Mrs. Yang in the elevator. Sonny knew her name because Vinnie knew the name of every tenant in the apartment building and half their guests. He knew other things about them, too. _Once a cop, always a cop,_ Sonny thought with a fondness he knew he shouldn't be feeling. It was useless, but sometimes it could be entertaining, the things Vinnie knew that who-the-hell-else cared about.

But right now something was wrong. Sonny’d heard someplace about natives, he didn’t remember where, who believed you could dispel evil spirits with loud, raucous sounds. Whenever Vinnie started playing this crap music, Sonny was sure he was trying to do the same thing, since Vinnie only played that crap when there was something was wrong, and the higher the volume, the worse the something. Today's window-rattling decibels must mean it was the end of the world.

Had the talk with Tracy gone that badly? And even if it had, why should Vinnie care so much? But that was part of Vinnie's problem, he over-cared.

When Sonny opened the front door, he couldn't quite believe his eyes. Most of the breakables were shattered. The things that wouldn't break had been flung around the room as though a tornado had gone through, and the things too big to throw were shoved out of place. And Vinnie was standing in a corner, as though he had been sent there for punishment, hunched into himself, that same look on his face he always got whenever he was fucked up again, and he was chanting that same stupid mantra: _wanna die, wanna die, wanna die, wanna die—_

What the hell had Tracy done to him? This was ridiculous! Vinnie was a grown man, and if Sonny couldn't leave him alone to talk to his **niece,** for God's sake—

"Vinnie." Sonny said it quietly, after he'd closed the front door. He knew he couldn't be heard over the music, but he didn't want to yell at him—he was afraid to yell at him. He walked over, and to avoid an argument over the volume, or whether or not the stereo should even be on, Sonny just pulled the plug.

And Vinnie did something he'd never done before. With absolutely no provocation, he punched Sonny in the face.

For a second Sonny just **stood there.** He couldn't believe Vinnie had done that. Something was very wrong, Vinnie standing there sobbing and hitting, so instead of hitting him back, Sonny tried to reason with him. "What the hell is the matter with you?" And when Vinnie hit him again, he still didn't hit back. "Cut it out! What's wrong with you?"

Vinnie went for him again, and Sonny backed away, then moved forward and cuffed him, hard. "Cut it out," he repeated firmly.

Vinnie was babbling something about some guy named Tony—Sonny was pretty sure he didn't mean Greco, but he had no idea who Vinnie **did** mean—and, bizarrely, he was pissed off and insulted because Sonny didn't want to hit him, as though it was somehow rude of Sonny not to punch him in the face. Sonny sighed. "How the fuck am I supposed to hit you when you're crying?" he asked, and then, because Vinnie looked so pathetic, and really seemed to want him to, Sonny socked him. It made him feel like crap, but he did it.

There was a lot of other stuff coming out of Vinnie's mouth—about prison, about respect, but mostly about dead guys named Tony, Lin, and Blue. Somehow Vinnie had gotten it into his head that Sonny had killed these guys, but he wouldn't tell Sonny who they were. And Sonny couldn't even tell exactly what Vinnie was so upset about. They didn't seem to be friends of his; he said their names like they tasted bad in his mouth—he could barely enunciate them for Chrissakes—but he still seemed furious with Sonny for killing them.

"Do you want these guys dead or not?" Sonny finally asked, exasperated. "I don't get what the problem is."

"No, I—yes, I wanted them dead, but—no—"

"You wanted them dead, they're dead, does it really matter who killed them?"

"Yes! If you—if it was you, it matters—"

Sonny couldn't take any more of this babbling incoherence. "Are you going to suspect me of killing anyone who shows up dead? I already told you— Do I gotta make you a list of every guy I ever had dusted, so you can refer to it if you get suspicious?"

There were still tears and snot running down Vinnie's face, but he lunged at Sonny, trying to hit him again. Sonny wanted to slap him, but Vinnie was trying to start a fight, and Sonny just couldn't fight with him when he was like this. Instead, he tried to stay away from Vinnie, moving cautiously to avoid the broken things, but moving because Vinnie seemed to be the most dangerously broken thing.

He wanted them dead, but he didn't want Sonny to have killed them, which didn't make much sense—none of it made much sense until he mentioned prison, and then it all made sense.

The truth was, it wouldn't've been that long a list, even if you counted the guys Dave had popped "just in case." Dave and his "just in case." Look where it had led: dusting that little rat Danny Mahern, which led to him having to off Stan Dermott, which led to Vinnie, who was now having a meltdown in Sonny's living room. What was that, irony?

Mack had forever been telling Sonny he needed to watch his temper. For as long as Sonny could remember he'd been saying it, and his father, too, and any number of other people, including—and this **was** ironic—his brother. And for that reason Sonny had worked especially hard to be sure that anybody he had killed needed to be dead, that it wasn't just something he wanted. These guys of Vinnie's, whoever they were, didn't fall into that category. Sonny hadn't even known who they were. But if he had known—yeah, he'd probably have done it.

When the phone rang not long after midnight, Sonny grabbed it on the first ring.

Vinnie had been asleep for hours. Sonny had fed him and poured enough wine into him to get him calmed down, then he'd taken him into the bedroom and petted him, and talked quietly to him, until he fell asleep. He'd taken the phone off the hook in the living room, and while Vinnie was in the bathroom, he'd unplugged the one in the bedroom. As long as Tracy didn't come back over, Sonny figured things should stay quiet.

Vinnie had gone to sleep, but Sonny hadn't, and once he was sure Vinnie was asleep and would stay that way, Sonny got up and put on his shoes, and went out to the living room.

But he couldn't stand the chaos Vinnie had—was created the right word? Could you create destruction?

_Who cares?_

So Sonny went into his office, which was only a little messy, and kicked whatever was on the floor out into the hall. In the morning he'd hire somebody to come and clean up the mess, maybe take Vinnie to the movies while they did it, or maybe back to the St. Regis, where they'd stayed when they’d first come to San Francisco, if it was going to take too long.

He'd finally gotten the whole story out of Vinnie, about Tracy coming and dredging up the past—Vinnie's past, it seemed—and wanting answers, and Vinnie had given them until she brought up Tony deVoss, and then Vinnie had flipped out.

Sonny had known Tracy would call, maybe had already been calling and getting a busy signal. He'd gone back to the living room and unplugged that phone, too, and when he'd gone back to his office, he'd found he hadn't needed to do anything about the phones—Vinnie had apparently thrown this one on the floor, and it had gone through its messages and bleatings unnoticed and had now gone   
silent. Sonny had unplugged it anyway, and put the receiver back on the hook. He hadn't wanted it ringing until he was ready to talk to her.

Sonny didn't say anything when he picked up the phone, waiting for her hesitant "Uncle Sonny?" before saying, "Yes."

It wasn't so much that he was angry with her, although angry didn't even begin to describe it—but that he didn't know what to say to her.

"Are you—is everything OK?" She didn't mention that she'd tried to call earlier, but he was sure she had. She wouldn't have started calling at twelve-thirty-six in the morning.

"Yeah, fine." He gave her no more than that. She could ask about Vinnie, or **not** ask about Vinnie, but he wasn't volunteering. Finally she asked about Vinnie. "He's asleep," Sonny said.

"I went over to talk to him today," Tracy said. Sonny waited. "Things got a little—I'm not really sure what happened."

Well, that was good. She wasn't whining and complaining and telling him that Vinnie had been mean to her and had thrown her out of the apartment. Vinnie had told him that, along with something about breaking her briefcase which didn't make much sense. How do you break someone's briefcase?

"I suppose he told you everything that happened."

"He told me enough."

"I don't really understand—"

He cut her off. "The only thing you have to understand is, you gotta learn to mind your own business."

"I thought you **were** my business," Tracy said, sounding a little annoyed.

Lying in the dark for a couple hours, listening to Vinnie snore, Sonny had had more than enough time to think about this conversation. He sighed. "You don't get to decide that."

"You make bad decisions when it comes to Vinnie." She said the words in close to a whisper, as though she was afraid to say them to him. That was a start, anyway.

"You don't get to decide that, either." He said it as kindly as he could. Hurting her wasn't the point.

"You're my uncle, and I love you. You're the only—"

He knew what she was going to say and he didn't want to hear it. "You got a pen?" he interrupted, breaking not only her flow of words but her train of thought. He waited while she parsed this non sequitur.

"Yes." She answered the question slowly, as though there might be more to it than she was seeing. Lawyer-training, maybe. Or maybe just because she was her father's daughter.

"Paper?"

"Sure—"

"Good, there's some stuff I want you to write down."

When she told him she was ready, he began reading the names and addresses and phone numbers he'd gotten from his internet search.

Four were in the Bronx, three were in Manhattan, and there was one was on Staten Island, one in Rensselaer, and one in Camden, New Jersey. There were others not on the East Coast, but Sonny hadn't bothered with them. Tracy kept trying to interrupt him, but he wouldn't let her; when she tried to ask him who the people were whose names and addresses he was giving her, he asked if she'd   
gotten the last thing he said, and if she said no, he repeated it. When he was finished, he said, "I want you to check them out."

"Is this about Vinnie—"

"This's got nothing to do with Vinnie. It's got nothing to do with me, either, this is about you." Sonny left the study, took the cordless phone into the living room. Somewhere in all this mess was Vinnie's jacket. All of the lamps were broken, but the fancy overhead light had been too high for Vinnie to reach. Sonny turned it on.

"Who are they?" Tracy asked, sounding scared. Sonny ignored that.

"They're your family," he said flatly. "Cousins. A couple of your aunts."

"My fam—"

"Your family," he repeated firmly. "Your mother's sisters, their kids—your cousins." He found Vinnie's jacket in that last place he would have expected: hanging in the closet. In one pocket were his cigarettes. Sonny took out the pack, cradled the phone against his shoulder so he could tap one out.

"What is it you want me to do?" Tracy asked. She didn't sound as though she had any intention of doing what he said no matter what it was.

"Call them." Sonny kept the phone against his shoulder so he could light his cigarette. "Tell them who you are. Go out there and see them. Do whatever you gotta do to make contact." He turned off the light, then made his way carefully through the living room's mess to the balcony.

"What? I can't—"

"Yeah, you can." And before she could argue any more, "I know. I know a helluva lot better than you do, because I was there when it was all going down. You wanna know what happened? Your parents ran off and got married, half your mother's family cut her off, wouldn’t speak to her anymore because’a the business Dave was in. He was low-level, not making any real money yet. The money didn’t start coming in ‘til Mack put me in AC. **That** was when everything blew up. And I was there when one of your mother’s uncles came to the office, looking for Dave, wanting a hand out." He didn't mention how Dave had thrown Kevin Foley out of the office, had dragged him to the elevator and pushed him on, contemptuously thrown a handful of crumpled bills at him, and told him if he ever came back, they'd find him the next morning when they emptied the dumpsters. First Rita's family had cut her off, then she'd cut them off, then Dave had tied the ribbon around the package. But that had been a long time ago, and Dave was dead, and so was Rita. And so was Kevin Foley.

For that matter, so was he. Sonny took a long drag on his cigarette, turned one of the wrought iron chairs around so he could look off the balcony.

"That was when your mother stopped talking to the rest of her family, and it’s been that way ever since. You don't want to make peace with your family, that's fine, that's your business, but those are their names and addresses." In AC Sonny had kept track of Rita's family because you just never knew. It hadn't been hard to pick up the threads. "Your mother had four sisters, and they all got married and had kids. Your cousin Chloe's twenty-three, she just passed the bar. She's the one who lives in Rensselaer, wherever that is. Your cousin Margie, the one on Staten Island, just had her third kid. Your aunts are all still alive."

"What's all this supposed to mean?" Tracy asked.

"Mean? It means you got family out there. Most of 'em weren't even born when all this started. **You** weren't even born when it started."

"Yes, but—"

"It means you gotta move on with your life," Sonny said. "It means you quit saying I'm the only family you got."

"You're cutting me off?" Tracy asked. 

For a few minutes, Sonny didn't say anything. He couldn't let her know it was as hard for him as it was for her. "You'll be fine."

"You want me out of your life because of what happened—"

"I'm not mad at you," Sonny forestalled, which was a lie, but it served its purpose, and anyway, he wasn't doing this because he was mad at her. "It's just something you gotta do. I'm pushing you out of the nest is all."

"I don't want to lose you," Tracy said.

"Lotta things we don't want to do, Princess," Sonny said. "That's how life goes."

She didn't say anything. Sonny didn't think she was crying, which was good. She was the last link to his old life, if you didn't count Vinnie, and Vinnie was in the same position he was in.

"What about the money I'm holding for you?" Her voice was all business.

"Keep it," Sonny said. "Don't worry about it."

"Uncle Sonny, there's—"

"I know how much there is. There's plenty more where that came from."

She didn't say anything. Sonny finished his cigarette. He wondered if he could get Vinnie to give these damned things up. He was starting to enjoy them.

"I don't know if I can do this." Tracy's words were flat, as if pressing out all the fear, and neediness, and any other emotion she was feeling.

"Princess. You'll be fine," he said. "You're tough, you're smart. Now what you need is your own life." He looked out at the orange bridge off in the distance. He hated that fucking stupid bridge, tarted up like some guy's ugly sister he was trying to unload. "Anyway, I think we'll be moving pretty soon."

"Moving? Moving where?" Tracy sounded skeptical.

"I don't know." Sonny shrugged, got another cigarette out of the pack. "I haven't even told Vinnie yet."


End file.
